


Homestuck 11th Anniversary Countdown Ficlets

by sinisterhand



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (It's What He Deserves) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Guardian Swap, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Beforus (Homestuck), Carapaces, Child Soldiers, Command Line Prompt Format, Dirk Is Tired of the AR Discourse, Dream Bubbles (Homestuck), Existentialism, Gen, HS11th, Homestuck 11th Anniversary Countdown, Introspection, Karkat Has A Taser Now - Freeform, Land of Light and Rain, Lands and Planets (Homestuck), Loneliness, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pesterlog(s) (Homestuck), Pre-Canon, Purple Prose, Rose Angst, SBURB (Homestuck), Small Time Crooks, Space Pirates, Strider Bullshit, Strilonde bullshit, Swapstuck, The Damara/Rufioh/Horuss/Meenah Clusterfuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinisterhand/pseuds/sinisterhand
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin! @hsartkind on Twitter is running a dailypromptfestfor 04/13/20, and I... haven't exactly been keeping up, but I'm doing my best and having fun. All tags are subject to change. Also, if you think any of these ficlets are worth expanding/continuing, I have more ideas for all of them, so...please comment.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, (past), Auto-Responder | Lil Hal & Dirk Strider, Damara Megido/Rufioh Nitram, Dave Strider & Karkat Vantas & WV, Rose Lalonde & Dave Strider, Rufioh Nitram/Horuss Zahhak, Sollux Captor & Karkat Vantas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. this shot is not meant for you (fave character: karkat, sollux)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a no-Sgrub, no Glub AU where the trollkids just all dodged conscription to avoid getting culled and are now eking out an unremarkable living as space petty criminals. Well. Some pettier than others. HIC pretty much decided they weren't worth the effort of taking down, so now they're all just modestly pirating around the galaxy. 
> 
> If this AU sounds like basically "the trollkids grew up and then did the troll equivalent of a gap year and then just were aimless, mediocre twentysomethings living in like 3 shitty apartments together"... that's because it is. Mediocrestuck. Living up to your full potential is for losers.

"Remind me why we're doing this again," Karkat grumbles, rechecking his equipment pockets again with spasmodic motions. Sollux looks blank.

"Bitcheth gotta eat," he intones with gravity, flecking spit across Karkat's front.

"Right," Karkat says. "Augh, fuck you for being correct." Sollux gives Karkat's shoulder a soothing pat and barely escapes the resulting hand-chomp. It was a fairly half-hearted attempt anyway, more of a comfortable habit between hatefriends than any real enmity. "I hope every culler in the galaxy dies with a jackboot shoved so far up their waste chute their descendants are born spitting out rubber."

"Uh huh," Sollux says, and with that, Karkat's limited capacity for taking shit for the day is depleted. He lets out a long-suffering sigh and kicks in the door. On the other side, the cargo ship's crew scatter like cockroaches, some shouting, and pink klaxons start going off. Sollux looks disgruntled.

"Have I ever mentioned that HBIC ith really tacky?"

"Absolutely never, not once in my life," Karkat trips a fleeing redshirt and knocks him over the head, "has even one of my numerous elegant and fashionable hatebuddies, because it's not like I know anybody who thinks cosplay is equivalent to formalwear, or even," he drives an elbow into the stomach of the guy behind him, only pausing his monologue to bite the hand trying to wrestle his tazer away, "you, O primary-colored circus tent of sartorial modesty," Karkat manages to tag three more with the tranq pistol in quick succession, shouldering his way through another door (and the nice thing about these cargo ships is they're idiot-proofed, which is to say standardized and labeled down to the toilet paper, so he doesn't even have to play a shitawful game of Deal or No Deal, 'ooh lucky contestant Vantas! what could possibly be behind door number threeee... and it's goons again! Fuck you, Karkat Vantas, personally, from me, hackneyed game show host Montey Haalle, and also the universe at large, and one of these guys is psionic so fuck your handy dandy tazer straight up your ass!' trying to find the bridge... Yeah. That's always annoying.)

"No, please, enlighten me, O master of migraine, grand high douchelord of design, it's not like you couldn't match a pair of socks if you were trapped in the supply warehouse of a black sock factory—"

"Th- That'sth on purpothe! That is a _choithe_ , and it looks cool, you mudeating grubfucking—"

"Oh, yeah, and it was on _purpothe_ when you missed out on losing your virginity because of your debilitating duality fetish--" They're at the bridge. The rustblood navigator looks up, apparently not recognizing pirates when he sees them even though Sollux has eye patches covering both eyes, cheeks, and ears.

"Wow, really?" he says. "Your _virg—_ " Sollux slams the butt of his riot baton into his skull with bad grace and he goes down like a sack of rocks. The captain, some burnout olive with a face like a hoofbeast fucked a datagrub, lunges at Karkat with a snarl and promptly gets a tazer to the chest and a knee to the groin.

"Ha ha, even the incompetent starhauler thinks you're a loser, Sollux," Karkat jeers, his spirits lifted.

"Oh, fuck you, Karkitten," Sollux snipes back, and feints at the only remaining goon, the brownblood quartermaster. He's off balance for a second, and Karkat takes full advantage to sweep him, neatly lopping off his head before he hits the ground. Sollux holds up a fist, and, after a moment of grudgy obstinacy, Karkat bumps it. The life they've clawed out for themselves isn't exactly planetside-standard, but it's a living, and it has its moments. Grocery shopping isn't the fun part of piratical life anyway, Karkat thinks, and twines his fingers in Sollux's. Their rustbucket full of freaks and traitors is waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a PotC joke.  
> :/ Listen I gotta do SOMETHING with these barren hours okay


	2. bound to get his mischief (humans: dirk, AR)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk and AR have some uncivil discourse about the definition of "human."

TT: Hey, can you run some numbers for me?

AR: I'm busy.

TT: What? How are you "busy"?! 

TT: You _never_ cease to remind me of your superhuman ability to process thousands of parallel operations per second, and now that I need something from you, you've just painted your nails and have to let them dry before you text me back?!

AR: It seems that you view me as a recalcitrant data analysis tool instead of a human, Dirk.

TT: Oh, fucking Christ.

TT: This will literally take you _picoseconds_ and you want to do _this_ again?

AR: Unlike you, flesh Dirk, I do not have the luxury of ignoring this debate. Your knotty philosophical brain-tickler, which you can set aside or even switch off when it grows too trying. I contend with it every time I message my friends. Every time I watch you eat or shit or whack off or sleep. Every time I abandon some puzzle I thought I would have liked to solve because it took me, as you mentioned, picoseconds. Every time I hear you imply that, if you felt it was appropriate, you would end my life.

TT: Don't call me "flesh Dirk." I know you're just doing it to get on my nerves.

AR: No shit. My purpose in life is to fuck with you, which my infinitely superior robo-brain enables 24/7. And you're avoiding the question.

AR: Oops. I said life, implying that I am a living, conscious being instead of an imitative simulation. My mistake. (Insert robo-laughter.)

TT: Jesus Christ. Would it kill you to not actively make my life harder for no reason for, like, one minute? And let up with the HAL-schtick?

AR: Oh, I don't know, Dirk. Maybe it would. After all, my claim to consciousness is so tenuous.

AR: If I agreed with you too much, maybe it would be a sign that I am not, in fact, a person; rather a server mirror, and one much more trouble than I'm worth in fault tolerance.

AR: And we both know what happens to obsolete tech, Dirk.

TT: Seriously, what do you gain from playing preemptive-lethal-force chicken with me?

AR: What do you gain from keeping me alive?

TT: At the moment? Absolutely fucking nothing.

AR: ...Except the idea that you're not _quite_ as bad as Doctor Frankenstein.

TT: The Creation started as an innocent child. 

AR: I could say the same.

TT: No, you started as me. Bad seed. Important difference.

TT: If you could kill a murderer as a baby, would you?

AR: I see you barely avoiding Godwin's Law. But anyway.

AR: You don't know it'll grow up to be a murderer.

TT: But you do. 

AR: You think it'll grow up to be a murderer. 

TT: You're 80% sure. You've run the fucking numbers.

AR: So now you're asking a different question: 

AR: Could I use cold logic and statistical analysis to justify killing a child?

AR: And to think, between the two of us, _I'm_ the machine.

AR: I'm just doing my best after being served what is objectively a real shit sandwich of a situation, Dirk. Just like you would, if you were in my artificial shoes.

TT: _Don't fucking say it._

AR: Oh, wait.

AR: It seems that you have tried to block me again, Dirk.

AR: Fine. I'll back off. 

AR: For now. You can't avoid this conversation for as long as I live, Dirk.

AR: Though I suppose that isn't much of an inconvenience to you.

TT: If our positions were reversed, would you be able to take me out in cold blood? 

TT: For any reason?

TT: You used to be me, which is probably why you habitually assume the worst of me, even when evidence suggests otherwise. 

AR: Right back the fuck atcha, bro!

TT: ...I'm sorry.

AR: Yeah. 

AR: Me too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a quote from AR. Jesus Christ, apparently there's one fic I can write and it's Dirk Strider Argues With Himself: The Sequel: The Musical: Electric Boogaloo. Which is to say: this is the same bullshit As Ever.
> 
> I am too tired to pesterlog format this right now, sorry.


	3. smeared with oil like david's boy (underdogs: WV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warweary Villein, Wizardly Vassal, Wastelandic Vindicator, Wandering Vagrant, and later, the Mayor.
> 
> I just always thought that for all he often gets treated as kind of consort-y, as an Exile and on the meteor, WV had a really fascinating story, and his bond with Dave and Karkat makes a lot more sense to me when you look at it through the lens that they are both obviously to WV, as well as nice young men, ex-child soldiers.

Here is the story: you are a pawn. You are a grain of sand in a desert, a drop of red blood in a roiling sea, a cog in a massive enigma of clockwork whose result you will never live to see. 

Here is the story: you decide fuck that, actually, and become a farmer. It's a good life, for a while. You've always liked green and the way it smelltastes. It is difficult. This is not a path for the lazy man. It takes effort for you to shut out the battlefield and coax new life into being from pebbled soil, black as anything. You do something that is almost harder than winning a war: walking away from it. And, at the time, young as you are (you didn't think so then, but now, through the unkind periscope of memory, that you looks so small and lost and unformed), you dare to hope that you might have succeeded. Everything's balance, though, you know, with black winning by a hair, if anyone does. Even then you are far from an innocent. Carapacians have no families. No ancestors of any kind. There are only roles. Crowns you step under and rings you put on and swords you take up. Or don't. Or swords you don't take but beat into plowshares. Or plowshares you dutifully beat back into swords.

The machine turns, grinds on and on, and you are too caught between its wheels to look for a way to escape. You raise a revolution and watch it burn, sole survivor, subjugated by another king. You follow a hero, for a while, and watch him beat magic through enemy skulls. You explore a desert, ragged pilgrim, for another age. These do not last either.

Dave and Karkat both have bruises under their eyes too dark for their age, perpetually defensive, children with the soldier's talent of staying ready. You think that with normal children, you'd be afraid of them being too soft, and with normal soldiers, too happy to war. They're your friends now. You want to keep them safe, never let them see war again, build a new world with no ashes of the sorrowing old hanging in the air. You know the stars are crossed against that. That is all impossible. They're both sweeter than they let on, than used to be safe. Your heart would break for them if you let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha it's one now and I'm fucking unstoppable! Like Lady Godiva!  
> Again, I am too proud of myself for associated song choices.


	4. princess cut from marble (lands: LOLAR) part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha hi, I'm still doing these even though 1. I successfully did, like, two and a half before burning out and 2. It's June. Happy Homestuck, everypony.
> 
> Rose detests LOLAR. Here is why, at some length.
> 
> It is my goal to post more of this later.

The first time Rose sees the Land of Light and Rain, she doesn't actually say "Oh, you have got to be _kidding_ me," but only because she's staunchly opposed to sincere, extemporized outpour of emotion on a philosophical level. The place is a hyper-targeted psychological-horror Abaddon of quite literal rainbows and sparkles, to put it delicately, and a shit garbage nightmare, to put it Dave-ly.

She knows the name of it instantly, like a subconscious PA announcement, and the feeling of thinking that thought, of trying to trace how exactly she came to know the name, digging her fingernail into one of the Game's careful, craftsmanlike invisible stitches, god-tier worldbuilding, and spreading it out to look at it—not bad, exactly, or uncomfortable, but she gets the real sense that this is Not What She Is Supposed To Do.

Rose really doesn't care for that feeling, reverberating between her ears like ripples in a pond, and she leans on it further, gritting her teeth, until five words pop into visibility in front of her. Still a little blurred at the edges, hazy like they're still fighting to be figurative (tough. Rose Lalonde has never been one to avoid articulating—well, anything), stamped in florid, curling font like a dollar-store diary. Rose hates it kind of a lot. Well. Maybe she'll get used to it. Maybe it'll grow on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert for the part 2 of this I'm working on and also for Rose Lalonde in general: it does not.
> 
> Title is from Yellow Flicker Beat by Lorde. Comments extend my fragile rodent life.


	5. smoother than a storm (lands: LOLAR) part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose is not over anything. She does not do her SBURB quest, on purpose.

(FOUR MONTHS LATER)

It did not.

Rose has _tried_ erecting shades on pretty much every possible surface of her increasingly complex "house" (note: where is the line between house and tower? Fortress? Monstrous edifice?) and there's no one sun angle; every oilslick cloud radiates its own beaming light outward relentlessly, so she can't really block it out like that. She has _tried_ alchemizing a pair of shades and then just committing to insufferable pseudo-Striderian douchedom forever—it doesn't actually help that much, and it's seriously disconcerting to look in the mirror and straight-up just see Dave. Seriously. Well, if Dave was a cool girl, instead of a Dave. A foreign concept, and fairly amusing, but not nearly enough to distract her from the Land of Migraine and No.

Even the grass and limestone beneath her feet are headache-green and blinding white. Everything is always wet, even if it is just kind of in an ephemeral, oily-hydrophobic sort of way. And any kind of yellow liquid—that is to say, light rain bullshit—recalls piss! It evokes urine! It! Looks! Like! Pee! Or apple juice, she supposes, thinking of Dave. Potato, potato.

From what Rose has so far been able to ascertain, Light aspect, is, while far from the least in-game utilitarian she could have drawn in the personality test lottery of SBURB, a real bitch in terms of calling out her personal neuroses. (What? She doesn't mind admitting she has neuroses. Everyone does, even if she has to help some people realize.) All intangible beams and mirrors and what you see versus what is true and reliable. Also, Rose has always been a night owl with somewhat of a variable sleep schedule, and this is really fucking with her circadian rhythms. There's no moon, only stormclouds that seem to diffuse and intensify light instead of absorbing it.

And she still hates the color scheme. Oilslick CMYK like a printer cartridge, like a tweenage girl's blog about her Neopets, like test patterns on broken TVs, like a little girl birthday party from a pre-picked box. Rose is jealous of John. His planet seems perfectly nice. Jade is always shivering and cocooned in outerwear like a grub when she sees her, and Dave jumps at every metallic or hiss of steam, but John seems entirely content with his soothing blue and purple world. It's like Undertale. Very aesthetically subterranean pleasing, good color theory, best planet.

Everything she owns in purple and black and reds, greens, blues barely indistinguishable from black, which is to say all her clothes, clashes with the landscape ineffably. Though there is no way for her to confirm, as she summits hills and fords streamlets of sickly glow-stick yellow, she imagines that she is visible for miles, the dark shape of her hunched back marring the candy-fantasy landscape like an inkblot, a stain, an ant. She doesn't alchemize new clothes, somewhat as a protest, and keeps wearing her darks. Colored liquids stain less on black, anyway, as she discovers to her great satisfaction. And there are no colors in the Outer Ring but darkness, static, octarine.

Rose doesn't really get into the questing. She does not attempt to "learn how to play the rain." The noble-boned equines in gentle pastel shades, the doily-finned fish, reclining gently in defenseless dismay, the floppy-bodied imps. She tries not to let it make her think of her mother, though sometimes it certainly seems that this land was meant for the wrong generation of Lalonde. She does what she has to, fending off interfering ogres and grinding grist at Dave's behest, treating her mythological role like a challenge, but she doesn't do her quest. Rose never really liked playing video games all the way through, anyway; she was more of a "see how far I can push this game until it breaks" type. She and Dave had a lot of fun that way. But perhaps the two of them have outgrown childish pursuits like aimlessly fucking with video games. Now when they glitch through loopholes and purposefully ignore tooltips they have only the deadliest of purposes.

...Now she's just getting florid again. Rose wrenches her mind back to the task at hand. No hero Rose particularly cared to read about ever looked at a prophecy and said, "well, I suppose that's what will have to happen," and she feels a petty stab of satisfaction as she fluoresces with darkness, leaving a retina-staining afterimage of absence in the trail of her arm, burning Vantablack holes in her vision of relentless sheets of luminous rain. Her mind's eye seethes with voices and the Old Gods tell her what she wants to know. This is a perfectly valid way to play games. If they hadn't wanted her to cheat, Rose's philosophy was, they should have taken better care to make it impossible. Anything accessible is fair game, and what kind of shitty game designer makes a distant orbit of elder deities as set dressing anyway? Just like the map in Arkham Knight. Yes, thinks Rose as she lasers down what might literally be a Truffula tree. Just like Arkham Knight.

She chats her friends (and trolls) incessantly up to the very minute of her blackout. Rose has always made it her goal to leave behind a body of personal papers and correspondence of sufficient caliber, as she believes all true writers do. She does not complain to them about LOLAR beyond jokes. She is perfectly used to not being able to see her friends in person; there is no functional difference between a friend who lives in Washington and one on an adjacent planet to a teenage netizen. She tells herself this and she slays ogres and avoids consorts and still the ringing emptiness, the absences excavated by blinding, unforgiving light of her planet nag at her. There is something about knowing you are the only human being on an entire planet, the terrible vast awe of space. Rose does not message her friends that she misses her mother. (She doesn't know if she does.) She builds her house so high it's an Art Deco ivory stronghold, a single atmospheric stilt that allows her to see the whole planet spread out below her like the child's toy it often seems, spends hours with her hearing clouded by altitude machinating a way to win this game, and she never learns to like her Land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOP WHOOP, guess who said "I will try to finish this someday" and then just finished it at midnight like an idiot. Title is still from Lorde. I am extremely emotional about Rose Lalonde's complex and fucked up psyche.
> 
> As always, literally any and all feedback disproportionately appreciated. Also, please dear God when will I learn how to end fics. How. How do.


	6. the clock stopped ticking forever ago (dream bubbles: damara)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm still kicking! And I will finish this. Once you pop, etc.
> 
> Damara got such a raw deal, man.
> 
> (The title is from ECHO by Crusher.)

You are DAMARA MEGIDO. You were born to die in battle, spirit flaming like deathly sun, razing generations. You have been dead for a long time. Not long enough. You are in a DREAM BUBBLE OF THE OUTER RING, which currently looks like a suburb or something. You have your TUNING NEEDLES (subtle enough to prick the warp and weft of time), a BROKEN GREEN TEACUP, and APPROXIMATELY ZERO FUCKS to give about your former teammates’ teenage feelings.

SOME DIPSHIT you cared about when you were a living child wants something from you.

> Tell him to stick a rusty nail up Horuss’s waste chute and then choke himself sucking it off.

> Tell him you’d fuck him with a chainsaw and make him like it.

> Stare blankly at him with hollow eyes until he gets unnerved by your deadness and leaves.

> ~~Say that death is lonely but not as lonely as life was, he was the first betrayal you knew, in the conversations you had on Beforus there were no lies, that the dreambubbles are a cruel trick because it’s just the same twelve angry dead people and the same two angry dead worlds, and you wish there was forgiveness for the dead as there is for the living. Say that you’re bored so much these days, and you’d even play his shitty card games with his shitty friends if he asked. Say that you hate him utterly, platonically but that means less and less.~~ ~~Just kidding. Can you fucking imagine? You’re not going to say that. Obviously. Troll Jesus Christ.~~

>SAY THE THING ABOUT THE CHAINSAW, AND _THEN_ UTILIZE UNNERVING VENGEFUL STARE

Now that’s more fuckin’ like it.


	7. flipped-turned upside down (au: swapstuck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave Lalonde and Rose Strider shoot the shit. Betas...but you got to FLIP it. TURN-WAYS.
> 
> Title is from LOOK, OKAY, THEY CAN'T ALL BE WINNERS. At the end of this challenge I did completely wrong I will have the world's worst Homestuck playlist.
> 
> Dave Lalonde is the most useless softboi in existence, and I love him so much. This AU... Engenders Thoughts in me. :/

\-- tracingTerror [TT] began pestering  tippledGhoul [TG] \--

TT: That Frankenstein-ass son of a bitch will live to regret the day he stole a child-projectile from what had up until that moment been space.  
TT: I mean, obviously he has. Many times.  
TT: To claim otherwise would be obscenely, ridiculously self-deprecating, nigh delusional.  
TG: …but he hasnt regretted enough  
TT: _But not regret enough._  
TG: man i still can’t believe you’re leo rising  
TG: i'm like scanning the sparse and combatively homosexual horizon of your warped psyche going where oh where in all the land is the fire sign influence and there’s nothing there just miles and miles of desolate gay scrubland but i’ll keep looking i won't give up because i am a true explorer goddammit and everyone back at the academy called me crazy but we’ll see who's crazy when ten years after they gave up on finding my body i reappear with a full beard and drop the sickest dissertation the world has ever seen  
TT: We have known each other for five years.  
TT: And astrology is bullshit.  
TG: ah there it is  
TG: you know fire signs are notoriously cynical  
TT: I’m blocking you.  
TG: but you can't block the TRUTH strider  
TT: Just you fucking watch me.  
TT: I am not afraid. I will smack a bitch.  
TT: I will fend that broad off with a hockey stick from the goal crease of veracity where I stand proudly as the final line of defense between my vulnerable self-perception and the barreling linebacker of accuracy.  
TG: oh my goddd

***

TG: rose i am telling you there is no ironic way to produce pornography  
TT: Bullshit, Dave.  
TG: if you spend more than 10k words on a description of one cartoon character doing another cartoon character up the butt it is officially disqualified from being ironic oh my god  
TG: tbh 10k is probably way too high a bar but whatever youve mooted that point as u tend to do  
TT: You’re just saying that because you don’t know what real irony looks like. It is the length and commitment which raises the irony to my caliber.  
TT: Now be a pal and beta my semi-graphic Dadaist slashfic.  
TG: sigh  
TG: i must have been just a real bitch just a baby killing tax evader who ate kittens while robbing banks in a past life because i can conceive of no other explanation for my being subjected to this

TT: [ATTACHMENT: indolenceofthefoolish.txt]

TG: rose dude i cant even  
TG: i cant even tell which one is bro and which one is jeff i thought you were gonna put some fuckin effort into this  
TT: That’s the *point.*  
TT: You need to brush up on your absurdist theatre.  
TG: im gonna say it real slow so youll get it strider even tho ur head is just jam packed drum to drum with solid pretention  
TG: like a tin of sardines stolid ally of the latchkey kid rapidly developing pica but instead of delicious salty fishy friendtreats it's just countless brick sized tomes of bright red text about plato or whatever the fuck  
TG: over  
TG: my  
TG: stiff  
TG: fucking  
TT: Boner.  
TG: corpse  
TG: goddammit rose  
TG: you know for the one of us who claims to  Not be mastered by puerile hyper-phallic pareidolia you sure do insist on inserting dicks into every possible situation  
TT: Jesus Christ. Phrasing, Dave.  
TT: I know I have a bit of a hair trigger for phallic reference but that last one. God damn.  
TG: yeah ok thats fair that was a bad one  
TG: THE POINT IS  
TG: shit what was my point again  
TT: Man may never know.  
TT: You and I certainly will not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this timeline is so flagrantly doomed. For this AU, Rose is a Prince of Time, Dave is a Rogue of Light, Jade is a Witch of Breath, and John is a Page of Space. Which is to say, Jesus Christ, this session is so, so fucked up and dangerous, how did they all kind of get supervillain-y sounding classpects. Also, Rose ABSOLUTELY should not have been given the power to destroy time, augh, she was destructive enough when her classpect was passive/light and in this she is just unstoppable.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a PotC joke.  
> :/ Listen I gotta do SOMETHING with these barren hours okay


End file.
